


Champagne Kisses

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: As such could be read as, But they're both on the same page, Drunkenness, Episode: s03e01 Ride, First Time, Getting Together, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 23:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20454968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: It's easy to lose track of time here, with the endless whirl of music and laughter. Peter forgets how many drinks he's had too. He just knows the hum of alcohol buzzes under his skin, loosening him until every touch is a pleasure. It's ridiculous. It's obscene, the lavish display, the wealth being burned in the name of entertainment on a no-reason Friday night.But it’s fun.--Peter tracks down Morse instead of Thursday, and accompanies him to Bixby's party.





	Champagne Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing something that goes... a little beyond chaste kisses? Wasn't sure how to rate it, because it's certainly not out there and I didn't want to get people's hopes up with an M rating! But let me know if you think it needs moving up.

It's not easy to convince Ms Hicks to give up Morse's address. He only knows about her at all because he'd dropped Morse off at the flat, and she'd fluttered in a doorway, half nervousness, half competence. Not like a civilian worried about criminals taking up in her building, but like someone who cares both personally and professionally. It had made him slightly happier about depositing Morse there. At least there was someone keeping an eye.

When he goes back though, to drag Morse out from his self-imposed exclusion - drink down the pub, or maybe get some food into him, depending on what he looks like - she says he moved and the shock of it is all bound up in some kind of inevitability, because _of course_ Morse would go to new lengths to ensure he's not imposing. He gets the impression she knows more than she's spilling, so he takes a gamble and makes up some health trouble with Morse's mother. Sure enough close-lipped Morse has struck again, and she doesn't know she died years ago. Or she thinks he means his stepmother, but doesn't know enough to know Morse wouldn't go running to care for her. Either way.

"Sergeant," she stops him, just as he's heading down the steps with a scrap of paper bearing the address. Some cottage in the middle of the woods? Bit dramatic, Morse. "He doesn't want to be found."

He nods. Morse would give that impression. But leave him on his own, now of all times? The man would drown himself in whiskey.

No chance. Not on his watch.

\--

The paper stays folded in his jacket pocket for three days. He brushes his fingers against it multiple times, reaching for his lighter, and it’s both a comfort and a coarse reminder.

One case wraps and another breaks, though, keeping them all busy. It’s felt like a month of long days, everything taking longer than it would if Morse were here making his ridiculous (brilliant) leaps. His feet ache from a day rounding up carney folk. He'd rather head home and have an early night, but really if he's ever going to track Morse down now is the time, so he keeps the car he's got signed out and heads into the woods. The sun is just starting to lower in the sky, sending blinding rays flickering through the trees like a dodgy bulb.

He must pass the little track at least three times, tyres crawling along dusty gravel, before he spots it. Because that's not a cottage, it’s a shack. There are signs of life though, with a pile of freshly chopped wood outside and boots on the porch. He parks the car. As he gets closer he hears faint strains of opera and stifles a smile; perhaps not everything has changed.

He knocks, softly, and the door opens like he's expected. The look on Morse's face says he wasn't.

"Jakes?"

"Wotcha."

He looks Morse up and down, and frowns. Last he heard evening suits weren't normal attire for moping around in a fishing shack. Perhaps he's behind on the washing? He can't really say it suits him, the dissonance too strong to appreciate the clean lines. The fit's not perfect either, made from a time when Morse was slightly more than skin and bone. University days, maybe. "You expecting company?"

Morse shakes his head, silent, and steps back to let Peter through. He scans the small room, noting the record player in pride of place. And the bottles. "Got to say I think you're a bit overdressed."

Morse rubs the back of his neck. "I've got a party."

Oh. That's... its good, probably, that he's not just sitting alone wallowing. But a party, when it seems he can't even face letting his mates know where he's living? No coming to the pub, or heading round the Thursdays' for dinner?

"How did you find me?"

"Nurse Hicks." He shouldn't have come. He's barged his way in and Morse is actually fine, perhaps better than he ever was. He's not here saving Morse, he's getting in the way, he's an unpleasant reminder, of before, of-

"Monica."

He snaps his eyes to Morse. "You left a good one there."

"Mmm."

The music finishes, and Morse drifts over to the table, lifts the needle and re-sleeves the record. Peter clears his throat, awkward. "I should get going," he hooks a thumb behind him, "need to return the car." Its weak; they both know Peter is senior enough to keep it overnight no questions asked. But the last of the sunlight is bleeding from the sky and Morse has a party.

"Rubbish."

Apparently, Morse isn't in the mood to leave him his graceful exit.

"Why don't you come along?"

Either Morse has a lack of party clothes, or it’s a posher affair than Peter's ever had the chance to attend. He's in a work suit - a decent one, because he likes to look sharp - but it's still a million miles from a tuxedo. He looks down at himself. He wants to say no. Another part of him wants to say yes.

"Here." Morse has stripped off his bow-tie and the tux looks odd and unfinished without it. He's holding it out to Peter while undoing his top button, and the glimpse of throat marries with that tumble of hair and reminds him of days in the office, ink splodges and tea stains and no time to iron. A single note that resolves the discord. He hesitates.

He takes the tie.

\--

They could have driven, but Morse insists its not far, so instead they slip and stumble their way through woodland in dusk-light and unsuitable shoes. Peter chain smokes until the sounds of hubbub get closer, and when they emerge from the trees he takes one look at the house and almost turns tail. Morse's hand on his shoulder stops him.

"Moving up in the world, are you?" he jokes, but its thin and reedy. "I thought your dad was a taxi driver." There's not a single other attendee who had a working father, he's almost sure of that. Certainly none that didn't even have that, like him. He shifts his weight as they still at the bottom of the steps, girls in glitz and men with fancy cars crowding the entrance.

"An old friend feels sorry for me, that's all," Morse huffs.

They ease through the crush, and inside there's more space. There's also a party like he's never seen, with performers and beautiful people everywhere you look. Waiters carry trays of drinks, and stop in front of them. He takes one for him, and one for Morse.

"Pagan!" A man, done up in an impeccable tuxedo, waves from the stairs and weaves his way through to them. They shake hands warmly, not a flicker from Morse at the odd name, and the man turns to Peter. "Who’s your friend?"

Peter gets the impression coppers isn’t going to fly here, unsure if the friend knows Morse's career choice and the circumstances around his stay. Going by the nickname and the surroundings he must be from his university days - there's no other way he'd know someone in these circles. Unless he'd arrested them. He knows Morse broke ties when he left, though, and wonders how much these old friends know of the current Morse. But what other possible way could they be connected? Not music, not college, not football. He waits, breath bated for the explanation.

"Peter," Morse says.

"Peter," the man repeats, tugging him in for another strong handshake. "Tony, it’s a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," he edges out. Tony seems pleasant enough, but he's had too much experience with rich boys who are all brightness on top and all darkness beneath. You don't get rich, or stay rich, without standing on others. He smiles uncomfortably.

"Enjoy the party." He turns back to Morse, and Peter relaxes slightly, taking a sip of champagne he'd rather was beer. He can't stop watching the crowd; there's definitely drugs on offer somewhere, judging by the glazed looks and interesting dance moves being exhibited. "Morse – Kay and Elva want to see you," Tony adds, eyes twinkling with insinuation.

"Maybe later," Morse shrugs. Tony's eyes dart to Peter and back again, and Peter's uncomfortably reminded that if Tony was an Oxford graduate, that probably means he's smart. Unless he just paid his way in. He must be wondering who Peter is. What explanation is he coming up with?

"Right." He raises his glass, and the two of them raise theirs and clink obediently. "Gentlemen. We'll catch up later."

"Old friends who throw bacchanals," Peter mutters, as soon as he's out of earshot. Morse twitches his lips but frowns at the same time. It's an unusual combination.

"It's not his house," he explains. "Tony's family is rich, but not in this league." It's all white marble and fountains, flashing lights and old artworks, and another waiter relieves them of their empty glasses, swapping in full ones without a pause. "I don't know the host."

"Only rich people differentiate between the family's wealth and theirs."

Morse raises an eyebrow. "You think I'm rich now?" Peter grins, remembering greying shirts and the hovels Morse calls home.

"Playing at it, maybe." He wants to twitch at Morse's cuffs, pull at thick, dark fabric and feel its softness against the glinting cuff-links. It’s a good act. Peter wonders if Morse played it at university too, or whether he told them where he came from. He can't imagine Morse living a lie, but Tony had looked at him like an equal. "Wait, you don't know the host? But he invited you to his party?"

"We're neighbours." At Peter's look, he grins. "Of a sort. There's not many of us that live on the lake. And Elva – a friend of Anthony's – has met him."

"Big party to throw for people you don't know."

"You can't throw this kind of party for people you do know."

"Well we couldn't," Peter allows. "You, me, the Thursdays, Bright and Strange kicking around in a house the size of a grand hotel. Ten entertainers apiece.” He takes a mouthful of champagne and feels the bubbles fizz like sherbet. “You can have the jugglers, I’ll take the dancers." Morse laughs, and Peter feels himself relax in return. Maybe neither of them fit in here, but they're here all the same, together and drinking on someone else's dime. Morse tilts his head, an invitation, and they head deeper into the revelry.

\--

It's easy to lose track of time here, with the endless whirl of music and laughter. Peter forgets how many drinks he's had too; it’s impossible to count when the glasses seamlessly reappear brimming, or are topped up while you're distracted by fireworks. He just knows the hum of alcohol buzzes under his skin, loosening him until every touch is a pleasure. It's ridiculous. It's obscene, the lavish display, the wealth being burned in the name of entertainment on a no-reason Friday night.

But it’s fun.

"Midnight," whispers Morse, leaning close. He's just as drunk, but he's wearing a watch, and maybe Peter said some of that out loud.

"Thought it'd be later," he admits, knowing they hadn't arrived until gone eight. He feels like he's lived a hundred lives in those four hours, but now the drink is making him heavy and drowsy. They shouldn't have sat down, but Morse had pulled him into the softest sofa he'd ever sat on, and Kay had tumbled into his other side, trapping them there. Kay is beautiful, but even through the party haze there's something dangerous about her. Her beauty is spelled trouble, and he keeps his hands and his words to himself, or passes them left instead, to Morse.

"Do you want to go?"

He shrugs, unsure. There something magical about this place, and about the warm pile of legs and arms he, Morse and Kay make scrambled on the sofa. He's not sure this comfortable feeling will extend out into the dark of night. But if they don't go, he'll fall asleep where he sits and wake up surrounded by strangers in the too-bright morning-after. Morse chuckles at his indecision, and hauls himself from the nest of cushions. He offers Peter a hand.

\--

Peter was right that the outside would sharpen things. They spill out into a night just this side of too cold, with a dampness to the air that predicts a dewy morning and makes him glad for his jacket.

"Why did you come, Peter?"

Perhaps the night isn't fully over. Not if Morse still calls him by his given name, and darkness hides their faces. "I wanted to see you." It's easier to be honest, now, and he wants Morse to know. He wants Morse to come back, but these words could never be said under strip lighting, with the smell of coffee and typewriter ink permeating everything. They’re champagne bubbles released, a sharp burn and sweet pop. "I missed you. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

Morse stops walking, and Peter stumbles on for a second more before realising.

"I'm fine."

"You're always fine, Morse." The world suddenly feels like its spinning, and that he's spinning too, but slightly out of time. "I asked if you were okay." He wants a cigarette. He wants Morse to stop looking at his shoes. "It's okay if you're not."

The moon is out, and it makes Morse look paler than usual. He shrugs, holding Peter's gaze, and Peter figures that as much of an admission as he's likely to get.

"Is this making it better?"

He shrugs again. "I can't come back."

The words cut something inside, the dead days of working cases these last few weeks stretching out into the future. It's stupid. He worked before Morse. He didn't even like him, for most of the time they were pushed together. But now... maybe it’s the idea of Morse wasting himself in a cycle of booze and dancing, before being kicked out into the dark woods, alone.

"Coming back to Oxford doesn't have to mean coming back to work." It's a flimsy argument. Oxford's not a big place, and whoever or whatever Morse is trying to avoid out here will be nipping at his heels as soon as he's back in the city's bustle. Morse steps closer.

"It's not just work."

He's tempted to ask what it is, and whether its him. He knows he didn't do enough, both on that night that they're trying to forget and afterwards, always too slow. Morse had spent Christmas inside while Peter drank whiskey and watched television. Then that drive back. He'd wanted to pick him up, but when he got there Morse had seemed small and delicate outside the prison gates, and he didn't know what to say or how to act. Just delivered him home like any random cab driver.

“What is it?”

Morse seems very close all of a sudden. His eyes are clear in the moonlight, but his hair throws shadows on his face. Peter can feel the heat of him, and wonders what this is. He'd think Morse was about to hit him, face set and determined, except they've had a nice night-

Soft lips just brush Peter's before disappearing. Morse takes a step backwards, shoe slipping on some wet leaves and Peter steadies him without a thought. A kiss? Morse won't catch his eye, staring at the grip Peter has on his arm, and although Peter's not sure what he has to say, he knows its important, and Morse won't look at him.

The jacket fabric is soft, he thinks absently.

“Jakes-”

Peter winces, can't help it, at that name coming out again. But Morse dims, stumbling out of his reach and no, that's not what that meant-

“Morse!”

“I'm sorry, Jakes,” -_again- _“it won't happen again, this is-”

“Peter.”

“What?”

“You called me Peter. Before.”

“Yes.”

“Will you call me it again?”

Morse stops, and studies at him like he studies crime scenes. Peter feels open; too readable and too vulnerable, but Morse had made himself vulnerable already, hadn't he?

“Peter.” 

It settles something in him that he hadn't known was frantic. He wonders who last called him by his name, before tonight. He can't remember.

He moves forward, catching Morse by the elbows. Now that he's here, though, he doesn't know what to do. Morse just kissed him, didn't he? Just leaned in and - 

Morse's mouth is so warm. He kisses softly, unhurried, and this is crazy, they're outside, anyone could see - 

But its the middle of the night, isn't it? And the middle of nowhere. 

Morse opens his mouth and deepens the kiss, and then he's walking Peter backwards until he's pressed into a tree, and Peter's holding on for dear life, one hand twisted in his hair and the other anchored to Morse's hip. Its like kissing a girl only really not like it at all, in a way that sends his brain spiralling and shortens his breath.

The bark is rough, but Morse is soft, and he's tugging at Peter's shirt to get his hands underneath. Peter tilts his hips forward, moaning at the feeling, his shirt finally coming free and cold hands slipping up. He feels like he's on fire, sudden, bright hot desire and embarrassment all in a delightful mix that sends his blood rushing, his heart thudding in his ears. He wonders if Morse can hear it too. Morse abandons his mouth to rip at his bow-tie instead, Peter panting at the pressure until the fabric releases and his shirt collar button gives up. They'll never find it in the undergrowth. He really doesn't care. Morse trails kisses down his newly bared neck, then back up, and scrapes his teeth along his earlobe.

“Morse,” he gasps. 

“Yes, Peter?”

Morse licks at his throat, and Peter's hands clench. “_Jesus_, when did you get good at this?” He untangles his fingers and strokes down, down to cup Morse's arse, enjoying the hitch in his breathing. 

“I've always been good at this.”

Peter lets his head fall back against the tree, grateful for it holding him up. An added bonus, it gives Morse more room to work, little suckling kisses dotted like stars, each one winding him higher. Who knew he was so sensitive? “Are you good at everything?”

Morse stops, leans back, and tilts his head to one side. “I'm not proficient at dancing.” 

Peter chuckles, and tangles his fingers back in Morse's hair. “Not what I meant,” he mutters, guiding Morse back for another long kiss. He could stay like this forever, but then Morse leans forward again, a full body press, and he's hard against Peter's hip. It stutters his breath, surprised at how _hot_ that is, and he squeezes Morse against him harder, a slow, inevitable grind.

“Not like this,” Morse mutters, though he's doing nothing to stop it, little hitching thrusts that add to the rhythm. Peter hangs his head, forehead to forehead, and there's something deliciously dirty about this, sharing breath without kissing, feeling Morse's flush against his skin, watching the way they move together. 

“No, like-” Morse interrupts himself, one hand on Peter's chest holding him against the tree and the other going for Peter's belt. He grins, eyes sparkling, and dips one hand inside in Peter's trousers, a cool contrast where Peter's burning up. There's a strange, high-pitched noise, and he's embarrassed to realise its him.

It doesn’t take long. His only saving grace is Morse not ten seconds behind, and the look on his face as he comes, which Peter knows is going to stay bright and vivid, shocked in his memory.

Morse cleans them both off with a handkerchief which he tucks away. Peter watches, greedy at the thought of it there; evidence, nestled in Morse's tuxedo pocket like there's anything proper about this at all. They stare at each other for a second, but he can't help a small smile, and it grows as its returned. He snakes out one hand and pulls Morse in – practically a hug, but he just wants his hands on Morse, and runs them up his sides and across his back. He traces a fingertip across his lip as it curves into the smile. Follows it's path with his lips.

“You can come back,” he whispers. It won't be the same as here, now, champagne kisses in the woodland, but it could be something good. Maybe even something better.

Morse hesitates. “I'll try.”

It'll have to be enough.

The wind blows cold, and they both shiver, falling into a slow stroll back towards the shack. “Take some time,” he says, gripping Morse's hand, walking closely enough that they bump shoulders over and over again. He doesn’t want to let go, but there's no way he can drive anywhere tonight, and he thinks of Morse's little fishing shack, and the single bed that they'll have to share, and thinks maybe, in the morning, he'll have stored up enough contact to separate again. “No rush. Just – just when you're ready.”

“There's a light on.” 

They've rounded the corner, and sure enough, a lamp is burning in Morse's window. 

“Tony?” Peter guesses. Morse's grip has tightened, but his stance has stiffened, and Peter waits for the inevitable lessening now someone could see. Morse's hand drops away and Peter flexes his fingers in the cold air.

“No. At least, I doubt it.”

They may be drunk, on alcohol, sex, (love) – but they're still police officers, and automatically fan out as they approach. Morse eyes Peter, his gaze serious, and steps inside. 

From the set of his shoulders, its not a threat, and Peter breathes again. He steps up behind him, ready to throw Tony out on his ear (carefully, nothing suspicious) and get back to the night. There's no rush with the car tomorrow, maybe they could sit out on the shore for a bit, they could try and work out how to fish together - 

“How are you?

“Well – you know. Liver still works.”

Peter freezes in the doorway but its too late. Thursday's sat in a chair and looking right at him, holding a bottle out to Morse, who takes it and looks at it like he doesn't know what it is. Like there aren't three other bottles just the same on various surfaces.

“How'd you find me?”

“Its my lung's got a hole in it, not my brain. All right, Jakes?” There's absolutely nothing ruffled about Thursday's tone, but still Peter knows this is a tricky situation. He feels sweat prickling on his neck. “If you'd already tracked him down, you could have told me. Saved me a job.”

He coughs. “Only found him tonight sir.” He's all too aware of his face. Had Morse shaved before the party, or did his skin scrape against Peter's? He can't remember. Are his lips too pink? Morse is hopelessly rumpled, but that's par for the course, its much more suspicious if he's got hair out of place. He remembers too late the open bow-tie, and prays his shirt is hidden by his jacket.

“He came to get me out of the house. As it happens, my neighbour was having a party.” Peter is glad Morse is handling the explanations, because his brain isn't quite ready to handle talking to his boss – a police officer – moments after breaking multiple laws with said boss' favoured protégé. They haven't even washed their hands. He can still feel the path Morse's tongue took, up his neck, onto his ear. Thank God Morse isn't a biter.

“Is that right?”

“Convinced me to swap brooding for...” Morse shrugs. 

“Hobnobbing,” chokes out Peter. His voice is a few degrees away from normal, and he aims for a more nonchalant tone. “Load of posh-os, but they were generous with the booze.” He hopes it will work as an excuse for their dishevelment, not to say the awkwardness he must be projecting, but in reality he's never felt more sober.

“Well,” says Thursday. He picks up his hat and stands, and the shack feels crowded with all three of them. “I'm glad. I'll pop back some other time, Morse, we can catch up.” Morse nods, and Peter can almost feel him pack himself away. “I'll give you a run into town Jakes, if you've been drinking.”

Peter's fingers twitch in sudden desire to twist in the fabric of Morse's suit; the small of his back, between the shoulder blades, anywhere out of sight. Just _hold on_. But he's across the room, and untouchable in present company. “I've got the car.”

“Come fetch it in the morning, no point kipping on the floor when I can see you back.”

It wouldn’t be the floor, he thinks desperately. At least, probably not. But he can't look at Morse now, he needs to pretend to be grateful, saved from an uncomfortable night and morning back pain. “Thank you sir.”

“Morse,” says Thursday, hovering in the doorway waiting for Peter.

“Morse,” Peter echoes. They get a sharp nod in return, with just a hint of a resigned smile that Peter isn't sure how to read.

He sees a shape in the window as they walk to Thursday's car, invisible in the darkness of the trees. Moments later the opera starts up again, and its like the last five hours have melted or scattered, until they may as well not have happened at all. He and Thursday just tracked Morse down together, stayed for a chat, and now head back to Oxford life. 

He shoves a hand in his pocket, cold suddenly, and it crumples a small piece of worn paper. He strokes his thumb over it, smoothing the creases where it nestles in next to his lighter. 

Well. He does have to collect the car tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> So... thoughts? :)


End file.
